


Happened at Midnight

by shinyrober



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Bottom Derek, Drunk Sex, Getting Back Together, M/M, Past Relationship(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-03
Updated: 2017-06-07
Packaged: 2018-10-24 16:44:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,373
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10745733
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shinyrober/pseuds/shinyrober
Summary: Derek and Stiles used to love each other. They met and it was like everything clicked for them. But Derek refused to tell him anything of his past. Keeping it secret was like pretending it didn't exist. Stiles, not having enough patience for that, breaks things off.Derek didn't want to run into Stikes ever again, but now that he has, he can't keep himself from sharing everything he used to hold back. Maybe if he can get through it now, he can have a second chance at the love of his life.





	1. Chapter 1

It hasn't been that long since they last saw each other. Maybe four or five months. It was hard in a small town like Beacon Hills to not run into each other. Quick glances at the grocery store, recognizing their car on the road, and in Derek's case, turning around and circling the block a time or two to avoid looking like he was following him. Never anything social, though. 

But Laura had insisted on going out, demanding to celebrate her promotion to detective by getting so wasted she risked breaking dozens of public decency laws with her friends and coworkers. And she dragged Derek along with her. 

The bar itself wasn't too bad of a place to be, actually decently lit compared to most, and the acoustics of the building were perfectly matched to the live band playing in the corner. But the perfect lighting only makes Stiles look more stunning, catching in his eyes as he stared back at Derek. And the music wasn't overwhelming so he can’t help but hear every word Stiles has said to him since he left the pretty girl he came with up at the bar and came up to greet him. 

"Stiles. It’s been a while” Derek says, voice cracking, the universe offering no assistance in keeping him calm and collected. There is no possible outcome where he emerges without looking desperate. Standing in front of him is Stiles after all. The man who Derek knows with every bone in his body is the perfect person for him. And the man who had walked out of Derek's flat and out of his life after he refused to promise forever. 

It is only when Laura spoke up with a "Hi, I'm Derek's sister" that he realizes he'd been staring. And not speaking. All three of them apparently waiting on him. 

"Hi, Stiles, but I'm sure you gathered that" he says, shaking her hand. 

"How do you and Derek know each other?" Laura asks, taking up the conversation when it is clear Derek isn't capable of saying anything, too focused on keeping his features neutral and vaguely confident. 

"Oh, we ran into each other back in DC, I was just getting out of Quantico and he was doing the crime beat thing and we bonded over being two strangers both from Beacon Hills." He smiles, nudging Derek with his elbow, getting close enough that a whiff of his cologne invades Derek's senses. The same Polo brand he always wore. Derek used to wake up to his pillow smelling like that. He'd pull it close to him in the morning, after Stiles left for work, just relishing in how he managed to end up so happy. 

"Well that's pretty cool. I’m surprised Derek even had time for friends while he was out there. Too busy chasing down leads and shit. Are you at a field office near here?" Laura asks, going into work mode. 

"Ah, kind of. Right now I'm being handed off to one police unit after another all over the region. They've got me compiling information to review later. Stats and analysis and all that. I'll be at BHSD in a couple weeks."

“Oh! You’re Sheriff Stilinski’s son! He’s been talking about that for a few weeks!”  
“Yeah, my dad’s really excited to have me at the station and I’m mostly thrilled to be allowed to look through all the files. Can’t tell you how many times I ended up in the holding cells in high school just for peeking at a few.” Stiles and Laura laugh. Derek still can’t figure out how words work. He can’t help but feel like he’s missing some golden opportunity.

"Stiles is exceptionally good at research," Derek mutters, finally finding something he could contribute and spitting out the first words that can form themselves in his head. 

And it was worth it, watching the way Stiles lit up when he spoke. 

"Yeah, they accepted my proposal after all." He nods. "I developed a plan for reviewing crime in metropolitan and suburban areas where, with the right information, you can predict almost a crime quota, kind of like predictive analysis, but on a larger scale. like how one town's department can affect another and how precincts should be working together and whatnot,” he tells Laura. 

"Damn,” is all Laura says, smiling appreciatively at Stiles. She’s was so obviously trying to avoid that _tap that_ face she got whenever she found someone Derek should take interest in. He could practically see it forming at the corner of her lips.

_I already have_ , he wanted to tell her, _and it ended badly._

"Yeah. it wasn't really all my idea, there was plenty to base it on, I just kinda stirred a bunch of stuff together until it seemed right,” Stiles says.

“Well, I definitely want to hear more about it when you come to the station.”

“Laura’s just been promoted to detective,” Derek says.

“Oh! Congratulations! Let me buy you a drink?” Stiles shouts, lighting up at the announcement.

“No, that’s alright,” Laura starts, “it looks like your friend is getting kind of impatient.” she nods towards the bar, where Stiles’s date is drumming her nails on the bartop, ignoring the stares of the patrons around her. 

“Oh yeah, we came here to knock out some wedding planning. I don’t know why I have to be involved, she knows i’m shit with colors and whatnot, and all the guests are going to love it anyway.”

“Wedding planning at a bar?” is the first thing he can think to say in response. 

“Yeah. we’re practically doing a power hour over there. Take a shot, make a choice. Gets it done quickly and all my bad choices are coupled with the excuse of being drunk when I made them. Lydia gets me, goddess that she is.”  
He looks directly at Derek when he says it, like he knows what kind of dagger is driving through his heart right now. And it’s piercing. It’s awful. Lydia. His childhood crush turned incredibly close friend.  
She was as glamorous as Stiles always said. 

Congratulations, he wants to say, but he knows he’ll choke on it. It will come out like _so you found someone who wasn’t afraid?_

Or 

_See , I was right, there was no point in promising each other forever._

Maybe he’d even find the words he couldn’t grasp before. _Please come back. Please stay. I’m yours and I always will be._

The thoughts were racing so fast he couldn’t catch a single one to spit out. The irony of the situation crippled him. He had lost Stiles, years ago, because he couldn’t commit to a distant future with him, and here he was, still completely committed. 

“I’ll see you around Derek,” Stiles says in parting, “Laura” he says with a nod, weaving back over to Lydia, who is smiling at him with a venom Derek can taste from where he’s sitting. 

“Damn Derek, please tell me you tried to hit that at least once in DC?” Laura jokes to him after Stiles is out of earshot.

He doesn’t reply. It’s like he can’t hear anything. And suddenly his three beers have really hit him and the noise is too much, and the lights are too bright, like they want him to see everything.

It’s too much. 

Derek beggs off his sister’s questioning looks, doesn’t move until he’s sure she’s distracted by the others. 

Then he stumbles his way to the door. He bumps his way through the room, too out of breath, too pained to apologize to anyone. 

He fumbles around in his pocket with his key fob and it takes him pressing the wrong button three times before he can get his cigarettes out of the Camaro. Two tries to light one up. 

And then that first puff is like a breath of fresh air. 

Another and he can see straight. 

Half a cigarette later and he feels safe replaying it in his mind.  
Grocery stores and chance glances were nothing compared to talking to him again. And god. He misses Stiles. So much. 

 

The first time he ran into Stiles in DC would always ring clear in his mind. A sharp, cunning FBI applicant who was going to bring the world to it’s knees. You could see it in his eyes. So calculating, but refreshing. The only hint that he was perpetually sleep deprived being the tiny crinkles in the corners from straining to keep his eyes open. 

Six months later and Derek had learned the crinkles were because he stayed up all night researching, just like Derek. They would take breaks from their respective projects by slow dancing, or slow fucking, and if they were lucky, they’d end up asleep, tangled in each other instead of going back to work. They both acted like Stiles wasn’t slowly moving his stuff into Derek’s place. Derek afraid what it meant, Stiles knowing better than to bring it up. 

It was after nine months that Stiles got too frustrated with Derek not revealing anything about his past. He knew his last name, he knew where he came from. But anything about Derek from before DC was a mystery to Stiles. And Derek couldn’t blame him for getting mad that there weren’t any clues that would help him solve it. He kept things locked up tight He’d learned too quickly and too painfully that just because people said they loved you didn’t mean you could trust them. 

Derek left for three days after Stiles admitted that he had looked him up at work, to try and find _something._

“I wanna marry you Derek” Stiles had yelled the day he came back “but how am I supposed to feel comfortable waiting forever to know anything about you? You demand I trust you, but I don’t get to know anything about you?” It hadn’t taken Stiles long to realize he’d said the wrong thing. Not with how pale Derek had gotten, or how he stopped breathing.

“You… what? You don’t want to marry me?” Stiles had asked after a long moment with no response from Derek. He stepped away. He tended to get up close to the people he was arguing with. Like if they could see the freckles on his nose, then they’d comprehend what he was saying better. 

But he had stepped so far away. 

“I, I can’t think that far ahead,” Derek had told him, frozen. He had desperately wanted to move closer, to hold Stiles, be held by him, but terror had kept him in place. 

“You can’t?” his voice had gone quiet. “You mean you won’t.”

“I just, I can’t.”

“It’s perfectly legal. I’m sorry if I don’t really buy that. Is it me or just marriage in general? ” 

“Stiles, please” Derek begged. 

“You need to talk to me Derek. I can’t understand or accept anything unless you fucking talk to me. And I’m sick of waiting, hoping you’ll open up, hoping that after enough time, after I’ve stuck around long enough or whatever the fuck you’re waiting for, that you’ll realize that you can fucking trust me.” He had started pacing. Three steps to the kitchen, three to the hallway, and back again, never coming within arms distance of Derek. 

“I’m just not ready.”

“Well when the fuck do you think you’ll be ready? I can’t just keep hanging on here!”

“Why do I have to know? I can’t see that far ahead. We’re happy in the right now, isn’t that enough?” 

“No. It’s not. Not anymore. Not when I’ve turned down positions for you, and you’ve rejected leads to  
stay in DC. You can’t do that and not have to think about the future. You need to acknowledge it.”

“Well I’m sorry then.” Derek shrugged. 

“That’s it? That’s all there is?”

“Well, you want more, I can’t offer you that. What else is there?”

 

He lights up another cigarette before he even notices the first one is gone. At some point he sank down, sitting on the ground against the camaro. He closes his eyes, rubbing his hands on his jeans, feeling the denim glide under his palms, how it stretched over his bent knees. 

“You started smoking again?”

God, not more of this. 

“It happens,” he says, not looking up. Like this, he can pretend it’s just his imagination as usual, taking on Stiles’s voice like it always does when he needs a conscience. 

He’s not so lucky though. Stiles plops down next to him, shoulders brushing, and it takes everything  
Derek has to force himself to not lean into him. He won’t seek him out. 

“So, you have a sister? And she’s a cop! That’s pretty cool!” Derek can hear the uncertainty in his voice. Stiles fights stressful situations with false bravado, swaggering through until he can process them and not break down.  
“I have two. Cora’s in South America. Anthropologist.” Derek mutters, leaning his head back and staring up straight to the night sky. He wants another draw of the cigarette burning between his fingers, but it feels more shameful now. Like it did when he first lit up after Stiles left. 

“Quid pro Quo Clarice?” Stiles mutters, picking up a rock, dragging it over invisible lines on the black top. It takes him a second, but then Derek realizes, he’s drawing the tattoo on Derek’s back. Spirals moving round and around, the strokes in time with their breathing. And, not for the first time, he gets the feeling that Stiles has a better memory of his skin than he does. 

“You’re the FBI agent. That makes you Clarice. And Clarice goes first. Quid pro quo,” he mutters. 

“Alright.” Stiles sighs. “Lydia’s still just a friend. My best friend. And she’s the one getting married, but not to me. I tried to mislead you to see how you’d react. I needed to know… I don’t know. Something.”

“And did you figure it out? That something? I can’t say I reacted too calmly.”

“Uh uh. Your turn. No follow ups.” Stiles smiles, and fuck, Derek shouldn’t have glanced at him. Even a small grin is enough to rip him to pieces. More somber, he asks, “why didn’t you tell me you had sisters?”

“Fuck, not pulling any punches are you?”

“Derek, I’m lying about my relationship status, you’re having panic attacks and chain smoking in the parking lot of a bar, do you really think I have the patience for that anymore?”

No. Stiles was never one for much patience. With himself or others. 

“I have two sisters.” Stiles nods, motioning for him to go on. “But I used to have two sisters, and two brothers, and a baby cousin. I used to have a mom, and a dad, and my grandmother was really sick, but she was there too. I had a really big, happy family.”

“Oh god,” Stiles whispered. He was always quick to pick up what wasn’t being said. 

But Derek couldn’t find a way to stop himself. “We, uh, we lived north of here, not terribly far, but we kept to ourselves, that’s probably why you don’t already know. But, during a family party, there was a fire.”

“You don’t have to keep-”

“Laura and I had snuck out. She had a boyfriend she wanted to see, and she blackmailed me into driving her. That’s why we made it out. Cora, she was only seven at the time, she still won’t tell us how she made it out.” He can’t meet Stiles’s gaze. He knows the pity he’s going to see in them. The cigarette resting between his fingers has burned out. Fucking stupid fire safety precautions, He hadn’t found one yet that wasn’t more of an annoyance than it was a life saver. He rolls the filter back and forth, watching tiny bits of ash float off, wishing he could relight it without getting a sermon in exchange. 

“I’m so sorry.” Stiles says, unusually still. Derek can’t quite make out if he’s tense, or if he’s just learned to stop fidgeting. He used to tap his fingers and toes constantly, an endless musical beat that was at times a comforting sign of life and at others a horrible distraction. Derek used to have stockpiles of silly putty and silent toys all over his apartment to throw at Stiles whenever he had a really tight deadline and needed him to chill. “You didn’t have to tell me.”

“Maybe not now, but I should have before.” why he’s telling him now, that’s a mystery he doesn’t want to solve at the moment. Not when it might shatter the foreign peace that has settled over him since Stiles sat down. He can finally feel the car against his back, and he hadn’t noticed, but it’s comfortably dark, no lights nearby to really cast a glow. No car headlights shining at him trying to turn him into less of a metaphorical deer in the headlights and into more of a literal one. 

“I can’t say I’m upset to see you out here. In California, I mean,” Stiles says after a long moment. 

“I always said I’d come back here.”

“Yeah, but I figured that was more in the.. Y’know, nebulous, hypothetical future” Stiles explains, twirling his hands in emphasis. “I didn’t know there was really much of a reason for you to come back.”

“After a while there really wasn’t much keeping me in DC.” Fuck it. He pulls out another cigarette, the last one not having survived his fiddling. He pointedly stares back at Stiles when the lighter reveals his face, daring him to tell him off. 

Stiles stares back, but he’s reigning himself in. Not well though, if the pinched look on his face is anything to go by. 

“Are you happy out here, Derek?”

He takes a long draw. Breathes out. Another. He wants to stand up. Pace around until this excess energy bubbling beneath his skin goes away, But there’s nothing that could compel him to break the spell that they’re under, this quiet conversation they get to share. 

“Well?” Stiles asks, when Derek hasn’t answered. 

“I wasn’t aware this had turned into an interrogation.”

“Of course it hasn’t, jackass. But don’t think I’m going to pass up an opportunity to finally get something out of you.”

“It’s not like it’s that hard,” Derek argues, “just get a few beers in me and I’m clearly willing to divulge my deep dark secrets.” Most of them, at least. 

“Nah, I tried that before, never worked. There’s something different going on.” Yeah. Derek misses him. And maybe somewhere deep down, he might think that if Stiles finally knows, finally understands, then maybe he’ll stay. No matter that that train of thought is premature, or that he might be getting his hopes up, something in him still _desperately_ wants. 

“I’ll tell you what,” Derek says, “down the street is another bar. It’s quieter, less people. Why don’t we head over there, and you can tell me all about your exciting life of consulting and data analysis, and if I’m feeling up to it, maybe you can get a bit more out of me.”

“Sounds like a pretty sound deal to me. But, I’ll have you know, I’m going to get at least one embarrassing childhood story out of you before the night is over.” Stiles hops to his feet, grinning from ear to ear. He extends his hand out to Derek to pull him up, and he may be struggling to keep hold of the rational part of his brain right now, but Derek knows better than to take his hand. Not when those long fingers and sure grip are there, waiting to ruin him. He knows better. 

He takes it anyway.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tired of headbanging over the last chapter. Realized finally it was because this was already as finished as it needed to be. So yeah. Have some NSFW fun.

The pub is nearly empty when they enter. One or two regulars at the bar and another hiding at the corner table in the back. None but the bartender look up when they walk in. Stiles picks a booth against the far wall and seats himself opposite the door, already scanning the beer selection before Derek can even sit down. 

Neither of them talk, not until after they get their drinks and Derek feels more comfortable shielding himself behind his glass. Like a game, he thinks, drink every time Stiles asks a question he should already know the answer too. 

They start off slowly. Stiles tells him how he stayed with his father for the first few weeks he was in the area, but after too many awkward fights about Stiles’s life, they cut their losses, and now he’s renting a month-to-month place a couple streets over. He wants to stay in the city, but needs to fiddle with his project schedule a bit to allow for that. He’s got enough to do that there’s no way he won’t be in town for Lydia’s wedding in nine months, he says. 

Offhandedly, like it’s not even his goal, Stiles makes Derek tell him about his job. Asks him what being an editor is like, how he likes it compared to reporting, if he misses DC. He has Derek giving up answers to questions left and right about the most inane shit.

Laura has two dogs. Yes the great dane is his favorite. Yes he convinced her to name him Geronimo. no , it’s not just because of his obsession with Doctor Who, Stiles, shut up. 

Before he can stop it, Derek is sharing a story from when he was 15 and Laura convinced him to try and jump out of the oak tree in their backyard. And then he’s telling him stories from after the fire. From when he and Laura had to battle the consequence of malnutrition against their desire to eat nothing but potato chips for days on end. 

“How did you not get fat?!” is all Stiles can argue. 

They’re laughing and joking and swapping stories over one glass after another until in Derek’s fuzzy logic, it’s starting to feel like old times again. It feels like they could spend years debating the merits of falling out of a tree when you’re young vs older or if 15 is too old to believe anything your sister says to you. 

Derek has some serious opinions about that, and Stiles is totally unsympathetic, having been any only child. 

He doesn’t see the problem with it when Stiles moves into the seat next to him after spilling his drink on his seat. It’s just fun to compare tan lines on their wrists from suits and watches. Derek has a natural advantage with his deeper complexion. 

It’s not an issue when Stiles squeezes in closer to him, demanding more room on the bench. He just feels the warmth radiate next to him. 

It should certainly throw off warning bells when they get up to leave and Stiles takes his hand, but all he can focus on is how right it seems, those big fingers wrapping around his loosely. He could pull away if he wanted to. 

He could pull away, he tells himself, after he’s crowded up against the brick wall outside. Stiles isn’t even going for it. He’s just standing there, pressed up against Derek, foreheads together. 

He knows what he’s waiting for. He wants it to be Derek’s choice. And as they stand there holding each other, he can’t think of a single reason not to. He misses Stiles. He’s missed him since before they were really through. 

Stiles’s place is just a few streets over. They would have time between now and making it there to change their minds. 

Derek isn’t going to though. 

 

Kissing Stiles is all at once more perfect than it ever was before, and not enough. It’s a drive-a hunger to be closer now. The wall grinding against his back is nearly enough to distract from the slide of their lips, the way they come together. His shirt might rip with how tightly Stiles is gripping it and there’s a persistent smell emanating from the dumpster to his left. Every time he thinks it’s all too much, every time he thinks he hears someone walk by, just as he nearly breaks away, Stiles pulls him back in with whimper or renewed fervor. 

They could stand here all night. 

Derek needs some control. He pulls Stiles closer -not that it really does much, and flips them. Stiles grunts when he hits the wall, but uses the pause in the kiss to jump and wrap his legs around Derek’s waist, trusting that Derek will catch him. 

The new friction is nearly unbearable. He can feel every inch of Stiles beneath him and the strength of his arms looped around his neck. There are fingers tangled in his hair, tugging, driving him to kiss harder and rougher. The threat of being caught doesn’t do nearly enough to dissuade him from moving to take Stiles apart here and now. 

But what Derek wants more than anything is time. He wants to watch Stiles lose himself underneath him. He wants to compare the memory of Stiles lazy and fucked out in bed to the real thing to see if it measures up anymore. He wants to wake up in the morning and cook him breakfast. Pancakes. Because Stiles is always ready with the ingredients. 

None of this can happen in a small alley where anyone can walk by at any moment.  
He breaks away from Stiles’s hold, dropping him back to his feet. 

“How far?” he asks. 

“Three streets. Five minutes,” Stiles says, already grabbing his hand again, pulling him along. He walks ahead of Derek like he’s not struggling to regain clarity, or will his hard on down, both of which are plenty impressive to Derek. 

They don’t talk on the way there. Derek doesn’t bother to think about it. He’s not really thinking about much, actually. Too busy imagining what the rest of this night is going to bring him. He doesn’t even pay attention to where Stiles is pulling him until they stop up short at an apartment building nestled between a hardware store and a bank. _Derek’s bank_. That could be convenient. 

He doesn’t even have a second to scorn himself for his premature daydreaming though, because soon they’re behind a locked door and Stiles has him pressed against it and is working quickly to unbutton Derek’s shirt. He’s struggling with it, fumbling buttons in his fingers, cursing about ripping the damn thing off. Derek pecks him on the lips and bats his hands away, making much quicker work of the shirt. Stiles busies himself with his pants, murmuring appreciatively when he sees that Derek still goes commando. 

Stiles’s clothes are simpler. He’s still prone to wearing t-shirts and jeans when he’s not working and it takes Derek no time at all to have him shirtless and down to his boxers. 

Right there at the door, Derek drops down to his knees and pulls Stiles in close, one hand gripped tight on his hip, the other reaching around to his ass. He mouths over Stiles’s length through the boxers, fighting off his own groan when he hears Stiles gasp above him. It’s not even worth it at this point to pull the shorts all the way off, he just hooks his fingers in the waistband and drags them down enough that Stiles’s erection pops free. 

It’s all he can do to keep from trying to swallow it down in one go. He’d be lying if he said he’d had enough practice recently to make that a feasible option. Instead, he focuses on the head, mixing sucking with licking at it, searching every corner of his brain for every last detail of what used to make Stiles insane. 

Part of him thinks there’s some muscle memory though, because it’s not long before Stiles is leaning down, head steadying himself against the door, one hand back in Derek’s hair, the other cradling his face. His thumb is resting at the corner of Derek’s lips, right where it wraps around his cock.

“Fuck, Derek. You look so good like this,” he hears from above him. 

That’s right. Stiles is watching, never content to close his eyes and just _feel_. It’s less of a deterrent and more of a drive to actually show off. Just a little sloppier, a little deeper, and he knows he’s got it right when the grip in his hair tightens and Stiles replaces his heavy panting with throaty groans.

“I’m not gonna- fuck. Derek, I can’t,” Stiles whimpers. He grabs Derek’s head tighter still, all but pulling him off. 

No one’s done that since Stiles. He’d forgotten how hot it made him. 

Stiles lowers himself down, straddling Derek, bringing him in for another long, rough kiss. They grind into each other, both reveling in the new friction, feeling so much more of each other than in the alley. Derek’s losing count of how many times his head has slammed against the door with the force of Stiles punishing kiss and Derek knows, he knows they aren’t on the same page. Stiles is letting out his anger, his hurt, planning to fuck him like it’s been too long, like it’s been forever. Derek’s in this like it’s going to be. 

He knows it’s dangerous. He knows that even though he’s drunk and in over his head with Stiles, he shouldn’t be so ahead of himself. He can’t bring himself to care at the moment. Not with the way Stiles’s hands are moving over him, across his chest, down his sides, back up to his neck. 

“Bed?” Derek says when they break to pant at each other. 

 

Stiles shakes his head. “Fuck it,” he tells him, reaching for his discarded pants and throwing a stashed packet of lube at Derek, pulling out a condom. “We’ll get there later.”

Derek makes quick work of himself with the lube as Stiles pulls off his boxers and rolls the condom on. He’s going to feel it in the morning, not taking the time to properly prep, but the second he sinks now and settles himself on Stiles’s hips, he knows it’ll be worth it. 

Stiles tries to give him time to adjust, does his best to not move, but Derek won’t have it. As quickly as he can stand, he clenches around Stiles, gasping at the sensation that rolls through him. He starts moving against Stiles, slowly at first and then picking up his pace. And then Stiles starts meeting him at every thrust, driving Derek down harder onto him. It’s nothing but moans from Stiles and gasps from Derek.  
Derek hasn’t had this for so long. It’s like Stiles molds to him perfectly and strikes every sensitive nerve that drives Derek wild. 

To make it worse, or better, Stiles takes hold of his dick and starts stroking him against their thrusts. There’s no pause. There’s no relief. And in no time at all Derek’s over the edge, clenching tighter around Stiles, Stiles’s thrusts getting faster, and then he’s coming into Stiles’s fist. 

Stiles follows right behind, latching onto Derek’s hips and thrusting into him harder and faster until he’s coming too. 

It’s gross, but they’re both post coital cuddlers, so when Stiles drags Derek down to lay atop him, he doesn’t fight it. There’s cum between them, and Stiles is lying there in a used condom, but Derek can’t move. Doesn’t want to. Stiles’s hand ils petting his hair, and Derek finds himself pecking Stiles’s shoulder and neck. Small, innocent kisses that shout tenderness and appreciation. Neither of which he’s willing to hold back on right now. He wants this to last. 

 

They make it to the bed eventually. After a long, distracting shower, and another slower, sleepy round when Stiles decides he’d rather tease Derek than sleep.

When Derek falls asleep, in this foreign apartment, curled against a foreign body, he knows he’s sober. He could walk back to his car in the early dawn light, but he’s happier here. There will be more conversations to come, and Derek is terrified, but nothing, _nothing_ is going to keep him from trying to go to sleep right here every night for as long as he can.

**Author's Note:**

> First time in a year and a half that I write something substantial? I’m going to claim I was in hibernation.


End file.
